A Strange Family

by TheWitchBoy

Summary:

“Does he… like polka dots that much?”

There's been a threat on Bruce Wayne's life. It's important enough the the Justice League decides to look into it. Superman is given the job of babysitting Bruce Wayne.

Notes:

It ends kind of suddenly -- I don't think there will be more of this one, though. I don't have the drive for it, lol. I thought I'd share anyway. *finger guns*

[Clark]  

The first thing that Clark noted upon entering was the young man with dark hair and a bright smile. He had been expecting Bruce Wayne, and only Bruce Wayne. The young man, who had to be in his twenties, lounged against the arm of a sofa, clearly at home in Bruce Wayne’s hotel room. A little too much at home for him to be a casual visitor. And, again, Clark hadn’t been expecting anyone but Mr. Wayne himself.  

A quick scan of the room found Bruce Wayne at the balcony door, on the far side of the room. He had his arms crossed and seemed to be looking out at the Metropolis skyline contemplatively, though Clark couldn’t for the life of him figure out what Mr. Wayne had to contemplate. Maybe the steak dinner versus the lobster dinner.  

And okay, yes, Clark was definitely letting the guy’s reputation get to him, falling for all the stereotypes and exaggerated society gossip. It was hard not to, with this particular subject.  

Clark just really hoped the kid wasn’t a stripper. It wouldn’t have surprised him, given Bruce Wayne’s reputation, but it would be incredibly inconvenient to deal with that. If he could pick just one piece of Bruce Wayne’s hedonistic reputation to turn out false or over-inflated, he would definitely pick the part that might include strippers, of any gender persuasion. Not that Clark had ever known of a stripper that wore black and white polka dot button ups. Or flipflops with their skinny jeans.  

Clark cleared his throat.  

The young man had to be something else. ‘Secret lover’ crossed Clark’s mind, but the idea made him frown. Wayne would be more than old enough to be the kid’s father. Besides that, it would complicate the playboy womanizer act that Wayne always seemed to play into.  

The young man turned to look at Clark. Not that he saw “Clark,” per se. The young man’s eyes were sharp and he looked to be coiled for attack, under his affected ease. The juxtaposition wasn’t jarring, but only because the act – the cat-like laziness on the exterior of the man’s body language – was well-crafted. Clark doubted that most people would have noticed the readiness, especially with how fast it dropped away.  

“Wow,” the young man straightened. “Superman, huh?” His grin widened as he looked over at Wayne’s back, then returned his gaze to Clark. “Jeez. I, uh. Wow.”  

Wayne sighed and turned. “Superman,” he said, reluctant but agreeable. “I received the League’s message just a few minutes ago.” He put on a charming smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m afraid I’m not prepared to host any guests – alleged dangers notwithstanding.”  

Clark glanced at the young man, even more puzzled.  

The young man’s grin became a bit giddy. He stood and walked over to Clark – to Superman – albeit with a kind of shy hesitation.  

“Please don’t ask for his autograph,” Wayne sighed. His smile slipped a little, growing disapproving.  

Clark bristled a little.  

“No, I, uh. I’d love to! But I haven’t anything to ask you to sign. Superman. Sir. Can I just,” he extended his hand. “Geez, it’s an honour to meet you.”  

Clark shook his hand and offered a kind smile.  

“Wow,” the kid breathed. “Wow!”  

“Dick,” Wayne said. His voice held a warning in it.  

Clark didn’t think there was any call for that kind of language or name-calling, but held his judgement in check, albeit barely.  

“I know, I know!” the kid turned to Wayne, still smiling. “Keep in touch, B.” His hair was long enough to be pulled back into a messy knot at the nape of his neck.  

Wayne rolled his eyes. “Dick,” he said, softer.  

Clark crossed his arms, frowning.  

The young man, however, laughed and launched into a handspring. Clark wouldn’t like to admit it, but he was startled by the unexpected show of gymnastic prowess. The kid landed a few feet in front of Wayne, then wrapped him in a hug.  

Clark revisited the secret lover theory, albeit briefly.  

Wayne’s expression softened as he wrapped the young man in half a hug.  

“I’m serious,” the young man said. “Call or something. Don’t make me put in for vacation days just to track you down, B.”  

“Heaven forbid you use your vacation days,” Wayne said. Then: “Go. It’s a long trip back to Blüdhaven PD.”  

“I’m wounded you’re not inviting me to stay longer. I could have lunch with Superman or something!”  

“Dick,” Bruce didn’t quite laugh, but there was a smile in his voice. “He’s here on official business. Not to eat lunch with a fan. Besides, with the threats to my life, I’d rather you be back across the bay, in New Jersey, rather than here, where you could be caught in the crossfire.”  

The young man rolled his eyes so hard that it became a full-body movement.  

And, suddenly, it clicked for Clark. Wayne wasn’t insulting the young man. He was using that term in a nominative sense. “Is… Dick really your name?” Clark found himself asking.  

Wayne and Dick turned to him, Wayne looking shocked and Dick looking more than a little amused. “Yeah,” he said. “Dick Grayson. Sorry, I just,” he laughed. “I thought you knew?”  

Clark tilted his head slightly.  

“No? Cool. That’s a first. I guess I don’t get out of Gotham enough if it’s like this just across the bay,” the kid, Dick, mused. “But yeah. Dick Grayson. B’s eldest.”  

“B’s… eldest,” Superman echoed faintly. Suddenly, he felt like he should have done some research. Or a lot of it. “Mr. Wayne has… children.”  

“Yeah, six at last count. No, uh, five,” Dick reached back, untied the knot of hair at that back of his head, and went about retying it. “Yeah?” He frowned. “You didn’t know?”  

Clark shook his head.  

“No biggie.” Dick waved him off, then walked toward the door, grinning at Clark as he passed. “I hope I’ll get to meet you again, Superman. You’ve been my favourite superhero for, like, forever.”  

“All of Gotham weeps,” Wayne said wryly.  

“Oh, please,” Dick stopped at the door to toss Wayne his most humourous smile yet. “The Bat’s just an urban legend, no way Gotham can begrudge me my preference for Superman.”  

“Mmhm,” Wayne made a shooing motion. “Long drive,” he reminded.  

Dick saluted and disappeared out the door.  

Clark, on the other hand, was wondering if he should tell the League that, potentially, they should be protecting more people, given the threat on Wayne’s life. The reporter in Clark was upset that he hadn’t realized that there was a whole Wayne family to think of. The extent of his knowledge was from a bit over thirty years before, when national headlines screamed about the death of two prominent Gothamites and the orphaning of their only son.  

“No matter how many we burn, he manages to get his hands on another,” Wayne sighed.  

“Excuse me?” Clark asked.  

Wayne turned back to the skyline. “The god-awful polka-dot shirts. At least he had the decency to wear them in black and white, this time. I don’t know if I could stand another mess of primary colours. Or lime." He physically shuddered. “The lime was the worst. Bright yellow dots against a neon lime background. Even the paparazzi wanted nothing to do with it.”  

“Does he… like polka dots that much?”  

“No,” Wayne scoffed. That scoff turned him into a bit more of a person. “He knows how much I despise them, I think. Lately, I believe he’s been into floral patterns, but I can’t keep up. Most of the time, he sticks to black. The running theory is that he dresses in black because he can’t match colours or patterns to save his life. The counter-theory is that the crazy patterns and combinations are entirely intentional, meant to torture the people around him.” Wayne cleared his throat. “Shall we? If we can get this threat to my life cleared up sooner, I would be incredibly grateful. I don’t have time for it, frankly.”  

“Time for—uh. You don’t seem very concerned, Mr. Wayne,” Clark said.  

“Please, call my Bruce. And no, I suppose I don’t. Why should I? Superman is on the case,” somehow, his tone was ironic, bordering on outright sarcastic. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m used to threats, but not of the caliber that require outside intervention, let alone Justice League intervention.”  

Clark filed that away for later. Used to threats? What did that even mean? How many threats could one man draw to himself? Particularly one man whose money seemed to go entirely to charitable ventures and bettering his business, all seemingly in spite of the airheaded persona he usually put forth.  

Bruce’s phone rang, then. Bruce pulled it out of an inside pocket on his suit jacket and eyed the caller ID. “I have to take this,” he said, amiably enough. He walked toward the balcony as he hit the accept call button. “Timothy, if this is about the—”  

Clark tuned out of the conversation to be polite. But also because he felt the need to update the Watchtower. Mostly the latter. He was a bit of a busybody sometimes and wasn’t above listening in on conversations. “Watchtower?” he pressed the comm unit in his ear.  

“ Hey, Supes, ” Barry greeted.  

“Is Di around? It’s about the Wayne situation.”  

“ Ah, on it. She’s...”  there was a brief pause, paired with a forced rush of what could have been wind. “ ...here. Princess, it’s for you.”  

“Superman?”  

Clark breathed out a sigh of relief. Usually, there were a few more hoops to jump through. “Hey. Uh. To the point: Wayne has a family.”  

Diana hummed on the other end of the line. Barry did, too, but it wasn’t like Clark was making a private call, so he didn’t mind the continued presence of the speedster. “ And they could be used as bargaining chips, if Mr. Wayne is found to be out of reach .”  

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking.” Clark glanced at the balcony, where Wayne – Bruce, as he’d requested to be called – leaned into the balcony, head bowed into one of his hands as he spoke over the phone. Clark resisted the temptation to tune in to his conversation, though the defeated slump to his shoulders was interesting, somehow. “I met one of them. The eldest, he said. I mean, the kid said.”  

“ How old was he?”  Diana asked.  

“Oh, twenties. Not, you know, that young. He’s a police officer, from what I gather. Blüdhaven, New Jersey. He introduced himself as Dick Grayson—”  

“ Oh, no shit,”  piped in a new voice. Hal was, naturally, listening to the comm lines while bored. “ Barry, that’s the same name as the kid in the middle of all that circus shit, like, almost two decades ago.”  

There was a long moment of silence.  

“ Hal, why do you even know that?”  Barry asked.  

“ I get bored, watch ET, whatever. The kid was plastered all over the celebrity pages for a while, there. His parents were, like, world-renowned acrobats,”  Hal said. “ Wait, trapeze! They were trapeze artists. And Haly’s is, like, one of the few successful traveling circuses, today. Whole deal: train, animals, big top. It’s crazy nostalgic.”  

“ Well. That does explain the flipping,” Clark mused.  

Another silence.  

“ Okay, ya lost me,”  Hal said.  

“Oh, no, he – Grayson – did a sort of... flip... thing. It was out of nowhere.” Clark rubbed the back of his neck. “But that doesn’t matter. What matters is that Grayson said he was the oldest of five. Or six. He said six, then corrected himself, and I don’t know what’s up with that. That’s four or five people, besides Grayson, that we don’t have tabs on.”  

“Well,” Bruce said from Clark’s elbow. Clark didn’t quite jump, but it was a near thing. “This time of day, Tim will be at Wayne Enterprises – or at the coffee shop across the street in direct defiance of our attempts to curb his caffeine consumption. Duke and Damian should be at school, but both have been caught cutting, before. Cassandra could be at dance classes or with her girlfriend, Stephanie. I can call around if it’s that important.” He smiled a disarmingly charming smile as he adjusted his cufflinks.  

“So. Five kids?” Clark asked. “Including, uh, Dick.”  

Bruce’s smile froze. “Well. Six. I could tell you where Jason is, but I’m afraid you’d find that rather morbid. Suffice it to say that he is no longer with us, though I still consider him a part of the family.”  

“ Oh, tough break – hey, I found an article. ‘Jason Todd, Ward of Billionaire Bruce Wayne, Dies at 15 in Accident Overseas,’”  Hal said. He continued, muttering parts of the article, though Clark knew for a fact that Hal was on equipment checks, or supposed to be, that afternoon. “ Yikes. Explosion. That’s rough.”  

“Hal,”  Barry warned.  

“Oh. Oh! I’m sorry,” Clark said. He did his best to ignore the back-and-forth chatter over the ear piece.  

“ Right, sorry. Oh, hey! Here’s another one. ‘Timothy Drake-Wayne Succeeds Bruce Wayne as Wayne Enterprises CEO at Just 17,’ well shit! That was this year. And I’ve seen fewer degrees on some of the engineers at Ferris Air, guys. Literal genius or something, holy shit.”  

“Yes, well, that was ten years ago,” Bruce waved Clark off. “Would you like something to drink?”  

“No thank you,” Clark waved him off. “I’m... uh, working.” Not that terrestrial alcohols had any effect on him, but Clark liked to set a good example.  

--  

[Bruce]  

With the League member actively keeping watch over him, Bruce could no longer keep up with the updates regarding the threat to his own life.  

He had, before Superman had arrived, considered having Bruce go “into hiding,” so that Batman could investigate the threats, he’d decided against, so that the people threatening him didn’t shift their focus, either to a less-able billionaire or one of Bruce’s children. That was also why he was in a penthouse suite of a Metropolis hotel, with its limited security and major visibility. He wanted Bruce front and center, in sight, so that he remained a viable target for whatever mystery degenerates were sending those threats.  

Wayne Industries, particularly the CEO office, had much better security than the penthouse suite. His penthouse apartment was a step above that, even. And then there was the Manor, which had the best security of Bruce’s Gotham residences.  

At least he had managed to get Dick out of there without Superman growing too suspicious of his presence.  

Bruce regarded his glass of bourbon idly. Superman was still in the center of the room, or just about, hovering nervously. A bit of rapport would probably help the man to relax a bit, but Bruce couldn’t really be bothered to facilitate his comfort. That would have been more Dick’s area. But Dick was back home, updating the family. From home, he’d go to work at the Blüdhaven City Police Department. Then he’d be back home for patrol. Then, he’d probably crash for the night at the Manor.  

He hadn’t actually driven from Blüdhaven to Metropolis. That would have been a waste of time. He’d used the Zeta system, under an emergency sub-authorization that Bruce had set up for situations like that, where Dick needed to pop cities over, multiple times in a day, and cover more area. Convenient, yes, but Bruce was braced for the day someone – probably the Flash – looked a bit too deeply into Zeta usage logs and realized that there were sub-authorizations piggybacking on Batman’s authorization.  

Bruce had been hoping to have a bit longer with his eldest, before Superman arrived.  

But, no. Dick’s only reason for being in Metropolis was for the updates on Bruce’s situation, as well as to update Bruce about a few of the more time-sensitive cases he had going on. As much as he’d professed his wish to stay longer and “hang out” with his favourite superhero, he had a very busy day ahead of him, playing several angles while Bruce kept all threats and eyes on himself, as long as possible.  

It was a shame, though. Since Dick’s move to Blüdhaven, they hadn’t seen each other as much, even after they’d reconciled in the wake of Jason’s death, Jason’s resurrection, Damian’s introduction, Bruce’s apparent death, Dick’s stint as Batman, and Bruce’s return to the proper continuity. Bruce wasn’t always the best father, but he was definitely a father and he missed his son.  

God, it had been a busy decade, hadn’t it?  

Speaking of that stint as Batman: Dick had decided against putting on the Batsuit for the evening, but would be patrolling Bruce’s routes as Nightwing, which was fine. Bruce was a bit disgruntled that the Bat wouldn’t be on the streets for the evening, maybe even a few evenings, but he knew how much Dick hated getting into the cowl, being that symbol. So, no, Bruce wasn’t upset about Dick’s choice.  

At some point during his contemplations, and idle swirling of undrunk bourbon, Bruce must have sighed one of those long, weary sighs. The kind of sigh that his outward, public persona wasn’t known for in the least.  

Superman turned to him. “Are you okay?” he asked. Because, as grating as it could be, Superman was the kind of hero that cared with his whole heart, always. Which was probably why he made for the best public representative, the best “face,” for the Justice League.  

“Just thinking,” Bruce said. “I need to rearrange my schedule, I think.”  

“I’m sorry?”  

“Not because of this,” Bruce waved him off, as at-ease as he could present himself. “Later. I don’t see my eldest enough, I’ve realized. He’s in his twenties, now. Twenty-seven, And he’s had his own place since he was seventeen...” he trailed off.  

Superman. God.  

Well, he practically was one, wasn’t he?  

But Superman. His earnest, open expression. His honesty. He purity and kindness. He was a curse on Bruce’s stoicism, it seemed, being just too difficult not to speak to, and too difficult to lie to. Bruce, for some reason he couldn’t quite put his finger on, wanted to talk to him. Wanted to tell him parts of his family life. It was disappointing.  

Not in that he was disappointed in the honesty or virtuousness, or sheer integrity, of Superman. Rather, he was disappointed in himself and how he couldn’t, apparently, hold onto his stoicism as completely as he thought. At least, not in the face of a person like Superman.  

“Wow, seventeen. That’s young for moving out, isn’t it?”  

Clark Kent,  he reminded himself. Not that Superman knew he knew.  He’s just a person.  

“Mm, we had a... very rough patch,” Bruce nodded. “And, in the middle of it all, we lost—” he cleared his throat. God, it still got him, after all this time. “We lost Jason.” He very pointedly kept his gaze on his (still undrunk) bourbon.  

It still got him, after all that time. Even though Jason was  fine,  now. Well, as close to fine as he could be, all things considered, anyway.  

Bruce glanced up after a moment. Superman’s face was a display of sympathy. Not pity. Bruce had a feeling that the face that met him was purely Clark Kent, the real Clark Kent under the bylines, kltuziness, tacky suits, and thick-framed glasses.  

Bruce looked back away from him. “Dick was on a business trip when it happened,” he said. “I... didn’t tell him until he returned.” Shame still pooled in his gut when he thought about that. “Dick missed the funeral. He didn’t even know it was happening.”  

Bruce took a deep breath.  

He could almost feel the weight of Superman’s hesitation. Almost. “You don’t have to tell me any of this,” he said, softly. Kindly.  

Just a person. Superman was just a person.  

Little comfort that it was. Because it simply wasn’t true. Under that Kansas-raised, Daily Planet employed exterior, even Clark Kent was something else. Alien, of course, but blisteringly good, in just about everything he did. Even when he was putting on that bumbling mask of Clark Kent the reporter (and Bruce knew it was a mask, after doing research into Clark’s past).  

“No, no. I know. But that’s a lot of what was going on, when Dick moved out.” Bruce put a smile on his face, though it felt stiffer and more plastic than usual.  

There were mitigating factors. None of those excused the fact that he hadn’t informed Dick of the death, or the funeral, but they existed. Interrupting a mission, let alone a mission that was off-world and with the League (with whom Dick only rarely worked, thank god), only to tell Dick that Jason had died? In  Ethiopia?  At the hands of  the Joker?  

Jesus, if Bruce had been in his right mind (he could acknowledge, ten years after the fact, that he was completely out of his right mind at the time, not least because of the death, but even outside that), even if he had been in his right mind, he probably would have put the funeral off a little. Or at least the memorial. He would have made sure Dick had the opportunity to get a little bit of the closure that such things could offer. He would have told Dick, in the first place, as soon as it wouldn’t threaten his life (which was part of what interrupting the mission to upend him, emotionally, would have done). He would have tried to keep what family he had left – which was only Dick and Alfred, at the time – as close as he could.  

“We’ve managed to make amends, though we’re both quite stubborn people. It took time. Thank god for Tim,” he sighed. “That kid wouldn’t let me off the hook, made me see some sense, finally. I just wish it hadn’t taken me so long.”  

Superman walked over, albeit hesitantly, and sat across from Bruce. “I lost my dad. He had a heart attack,” he said.  

And Bruce had to bite his tongue to keep from telling Superman not to impart information that might compromise his identity. It was a bare miss, though. “I’m sorry,” Bruce said instead, polite and honest in his sympathy. He knew what losing a parent could do to someone. Many times over, from personal and secondhand experience.  

“I was mad at him, that day,” Superman looked down at the table, frowning. Bruce was uncomfortable thinking of the vulnerable man, sharing his own regrets with Bruce as he was, as Superman. But he couldn’t start thinking of him by his civilian name, lest he slip up. But that face, those words, they were all Clark. Superman was, perhaps, more of the “real” Clark than Bruce would have thought. “I hate that the last things I said to him were so angry. I was a high schooler, full of angst and high-mindedness.” He laughed, self-deprecating. “God, I’d take back our last conversation in a heartbeat. I’d give a lot to just see him one more time.”  

“I know the feeling,” Bruce raised his glass to Clark and finally took his first sip. He didn’t generally imbibe, something that Dick managed to pick up from him, but there was nothing wrong with drinking in moderation, even if Bruce didn’t do so – even in his own home – very often.  

Bruce and Clark—ah, damn. Bruce and Superman exchanged an understanding smile. The look was a bit sad, but also comforting.  

--  

[Barry]  

“So, hey, isn’t this Bruce Wayne dude a Gotham guy?” Hal asked.  

“Yeah?” Barry turned to Hal, frowning.  

“Isn’t that Spooky’s territory? Why’s Big Blue taking point on this one?”  

“Well, I mean. Mr. Wayne’s in Metropolis, and it’s the middle of the day...”  

“Yeah, yeah. But Spooky’s always so possessive of his things, but I haven’t heard anything from him since this situation started. You’d think that ‘Gotham’s Prince’ would be at least passingly important to the Big Bad Bat, wouldn’t you?”  

Barry rolled his eyes. “Just because you and I haven’t heard anything doesn’t mean Batman hasn’t been in contact with Di and Clark. You know how private and secretive he is. Would it really surprise you if he was using a private line?”  

“I mean, no...”  

“Yeah, no,” Barry nodded. “Because he’s the Batman and he prefers to work behind the scenes or from the shadows, or straight up alone. Obviously, if the Bat can’t operate like he usually does, he’s going to go for the next best thing.”  

“Clark.”  

“Yeah, Clark. I mean, I know you don’t believe it, but they’re friends. If the Bat’s gonna trust anyone with anything vaguely Gothamite, he’s gonna trust Clark.”  

Hal didn’t look convinced.  

--  

[Clark]  

Lunch with Bruce Wayne was uneventful after the spontaneous heart-to-heart, except another two phone calls from his children.  

Clark found out, relatively quickly, that the Bruce Wayne of the tabloids was about as much of a fiction as the bumbling, demure Clark Kent he showed up to work as. Bruce Wayne was charming and affable, but he wasn’t anywhere near as lascivious as Clark had been led to believe. He was also sharp and witty, which were both unexpected.  

And also horribly sympathetic. Clark didn’t know about Bruce’s children, no, but he was vaguely aware of Bruce’s own past, so he already knew that they shared loss of a parent. Parents, of course, in Bruce’s case.  

But again. Bruce Wayne was far more human than any given tabloid would have had Clark believe. If anything, Clark had been expecting less of a person and more of a Ken doll.  

Really, Clark wanted to kick himself. He should have known, from anecdotal evidence alone, that Bruce was intelligent, at the very least. You didn’t stay CEO of a corporation like Wayne Enterprises for over ten years by being an idiot. Sure, a figurehead CEO, maybe. But there was more than enough evidence to say that Bruce was an active hand in Wayne Enterprises’ activities, ever since ousting his uncle when he’d first reappeared, something like fifteen or twenty years ago.  

God, Bruce Wayne had quite the history. Death of his parents, brilliant college career, sudden disinterest in and dropping out of college, disappearance, presumed death, reappearance just before his shares could be passed to his closest living relative, takeover of his own company, heading said company, wardship, adoption, children apparently coming out of the woodwork, death of one of those children... the only thing that could make his history anymore insane would have been if Bruce Wayne were also a vigilante, along the lines of Ollie’s brand of billionaire vigilantism.  

A lot of Bruce’s history, Clark considered himself passingly familiar with. Particularly the death of his parents, his disappearance, and his reappearance. Everything else, Hal filled in with sensational headlines and bits of articles, whenever his actual tasks bored him.  

Clark was glad, for once, that Hal didn’t seem to be able to keep his mind on one thing, as it filled in a lot of the things that Clark felt that he should have researched, himself, before taking on this assignment. However, he did wish Hal didn’t go after all the most sensationalist headings, at the very least.  

“This one, this article is about a conspiracy theory that Jason Todd never died,”  was what Hal had said, last.  “It’s actually got some interesting points. And,”  Hal took a moment to laugh, which Clark found incredibly inappropriate.  “There’s also some extremely grainy pictures of what people are claiming is Jason Todd. Some super bad cell phone shots and stuff. There’s some quotes at the end, from passers-by who the reporter – a term I use loosely – asked whether or not they thought Jason Todd was alive, one of them says ‘What? Do you think he’s Lazarus or something? He’d have to be to be alive after a beating like that.’ Except, you know, Jason Todd wasn’t beaten according to the official reports about his death.”  

As thankful for all the other articles as Clark had been, he tuned Hal out after that one. Conspiracy theories were where he drew the line, story inconsistencies and unprofessionalism of reporters, like that particular reporter using a quote from someone off the street who didn’t actually know what happened to the poor kid, being the least of the reasons why.  

(There was absolutely no way for Clark to know it, but that passer-by had been Jason and, not only did he think his quote was his best work, in terms of comedic trolling and hint-dropping his own un-death, but he had that article framed and in a place of prominence in one of his permanent safehouses.)  

Sometime after the heart-to-heart and Hal’s last worthwhile article quoting, Bruce announced that he was going to have lunch. And “lunch,” for Bruce, was something ridiculously fancy disguised to look like a sandwich, on a menu of other things that were also ridiculously fancy and oxymoronically named after more common foods, like macaroni and cheese. Clark knew macaroni and cheese and, frankly, he wasn’t sure where brie got off, invading a mac n’ cheese dish like that. Bruce offered to buy lunch for Clark, as well, but even if Clark were hungry (or willing to eat on Bruce Wayne’s bill), he didn’t know if he trusted a sandwich off a menu with no prices listed.  

Clark declined, politely.  

Bruce didn’t seem at all embarrassed to be eating on his own, though, and he ate with the kind of gentlemanly manners that wouldn’t have been out of place on one of the period pieces about England’s long history of kings and queens.  

Or a household where the head of the family had been raised by the butler.  

The first call came towards the beginning of the meal and, after glancing at the Caller ID, Bruce declined the call. It wasn’t even ten seconds before his phone was ringing again. He sighed through his nose and accepted the call the second time and put the phone to his ear. “Damian, I sincerely hope you’re at school and not calling from the principal’s office. But if you are calling from the principal’s office, I suggest calling Dick, as I am currently unavailable. If you’re not at school, however, I don’t want to know.”  

“Father.”  

Bruce dropped his head forward a bit, as if the one word told him everything he needed to know. “Damian. Please.”  

There was a scoff on the other end of the line.  “Have you really been threatened by an international terrorist organization? On a Monday?”  The voice of Bruce’s kid sounded young and unbearably petulant, in Clark’s opinion.  

And why was the fact that it was a Monday even worth noting?  

“You’re talking like I had some hand in the timing. I didn’t, Damian.” Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose and leaned back in his chair. His so-called “sandwich” – which probably cost more than Clark’s “nice” suit – sat nearly untouched on the table.  

“Father,”  the voice continued, tinny over the cell line.  “You should be home, in Gotham, where this can be dealt with through means of personal and private security—”  

“Damian.”  

“—not aliens and self-styled gods with nothing better to do than meddle in on our lives—”  

“Damian,” Bruce repeated, a bit more stern, but no less exasperated.  

“—it is insulting! We can protect our own. You should dismiss the Alien and return home, immediately. Terrorists or no, I dare them to get past the security of Wayne Manor or the Wayne Enterprises building!”  

Bruce breathed out through his nose, his brow pinched tightly. “Damian, I understand that you are concerned, but you’re going to hang up and go back to class, understand? The Justice League are more than capable of taking care of a simple threat on my life.” Bruce gave Damian a beat, as if expecting an interruption. The quiet on the other line persisted, however, so Bruce nodded and continued. “Your concern is noted, son. But it’s unnecessary. Superman, himself, is here, making sure that I remain whole, hale, and perfectly safe. Okay?”  

“As if I would entrust your safety to the Alien.”  

Bruce rubbed his eyes, a sure sign of his building headache. “Go back to class, Damian. I’ll talk to you tonight, and I’ll be sure to call as soon as the threat is over, no matter when that is.”  

Another brief silence.  

“I will hold you to it, Father. Farewell.”  

Damian hung up before Bruce could return the goodbye with one of his own, but Bruce didn’t look miffed at it. He turned to Clark with a wry smile. “Teenagers,” he shrugged.  

Clark could relate. Ugh, twice over, with Jon’s last birthday. He had no idea how Lois managed to get either of them to listen to her, but part of him wished they were still together, just so he could live in the house she presided over, and with the most well-behaved versions of his sons.  

The next interruption happened just after lunch, once Bruce had situated the room service cart just outside the door, with a generous tip. He looked at his Caller ID, much as he’d done, before, and picked up immediately with a: “Please tell me he didn’t get detention.”  

Bruce paced across the room, toward the windows.  

The laugh on the other end was familiar and Clark was able to place it, pretty quickly, as the laugh of the young man he’d met when he’d first arrived at Mr. Wayne’s room.  “No, he’s good, B. He’s fine. I was actually calling to see if you wouldn’t be amenable to maybe, possibly allowing me to use the car, tonight...?”  

Bruce, suddenly looking very much the part of a beleaguered father, pinched the bridge of his nose. It seemed to be his go-to in terms of stress expression. “Dick.”  

“I promise I’ll follow all the rules and treat her real nice!”  

For some reason, Clark felt that Dick’s end of the call sounded more echoey than it had a right to be. Like he was in a large, empty ballroom and all the sounds he was making were echoing back at him. Granted, knowing that it was a  Wayne  on the other end of the call, that exact situation was perfectly reasonable.  

Bruce sighed through his nose and dropped his hand. “Don’t make me regret this, Dick—”  

“Oh my god, I love you! Thanks, Bruce!”  

Dick hung up on his end, presumably before Bruce could change his mind. Clark smothered the smallest of laughs at the look of amused aggravation that Bruce gave his phone.  

“Kids,” Bruce scoffed, grinning over at Clark.  

Clark grinned back. “I know what you mean.”  

“You’ve got kids?” Bruce asked, eyebrows raised.  

“Yeah.” Clark shrugged.  

“Let me guess. Superboy?”  

“Yes, both of them. But, you have to admit, it’d be a bit odd if the name were used by someone who wasn’t a part of my family,” Clark chuckled.  

Bruce nodded agreeably.  

There was a long moment of silence that was comfortable enough.  

“I don’t suppose there have been any updates on the threat to my life,” Bruce had wandered back to the balcony windows in the middle of his call with Dick. He seemed blasé enough, indifferent to the entire situation and comfortable with the lot he’d pulled, but Clark felt that there was a growing restlessness in him, particularly after three calls from three of his kids, over the course of the time that Clark had been there.  

Come to think of it. Something about that last call was nagging at Clark. He couldn’t quite place it...  

“Unfortunately, no. But we have our best on the investigation,” he decided to shrug off the nagging something, for the mean time.  

Clark stood in the center of the room (again), trying not to feel too out of place in the penthouse Bruce had evidently rented out on a whim. It was hard when most of the decorations looked like they were worth more than two months’ rent of Clark’s apartment, though. So far, he was pretty sure that he’d kept his feet firmly on the ground, but he knew that his nerves tended to make themselves known with floating, which was embarrassing.  

Luckily, Bruce Wayne wouldn’t know about the nerves thing, so if Clark floated off at some point, he could pass it off however he pleased, with Mr. Wayne – Bruce – none the wiser.  

“Mm, and the best on babysitter duty,” Bruce mused.  

“So I’ve been told,” he shrugged. He didn’t go for the false modesty, but he also didn’t think he was really the best of the best, in terms of particular duties, like the others insisted.  

“Who does ‘best of the best’ imply, in terms of the investigation, anyway?” Bruce turned to him slightly. It was a short glance, but there was something amused underlying the gaze.  

“Green Lantern and Flash have been tapped for parts of the investigation.” Clark didn’t miss the scoff he received for that, but chose to ignore it. “Di—ah, sorry. Wonder Woman is managing all the arms of the investigations, delegating and all that.”  

“’Di,’ huh?”  

Clark shrugged, even though he knew Bruce couldn’t see it. He really needed to watch his use of names, though he didn’t think there was much harm in mentioning Diana’s name, honestly. There were enough Di’s and Diana’s in the world, and Princess Diana of Themyscira was about as separate from Diana Prince, art historian and restoration expert, as you could get. “Wonder Woman,” he said, a bit more emphatically.  

“Isn’t that Bat, from Gotham, one of your League members?”  

Clark took a long moment to think through his next answer. He knew that, somehow, if he offered the wrong response, Batman would hear of it. Heavens knew Clark had been admonished enough by the Bat for a lifetime. “Our League roster isn’t public information,” he said, apologetic.  

“No, it isn’t,” Bruce agreed. He turned, grinning. “I wouldn’t have to ask if it was something I could type into a search bar.”  

Clark chuckled. “I suppose that’s true.”  

“Well. Urban myth he might be, with pictures so blurry it puts Bigfoot’s to shame, but Batman has had a certain legitimacy in Gotham, with the police force. For closing cases. In my opinion, any man with Commissioner Gordon’s trust is a man that the city can trust. I suppose it’s too much to hope that the self-styled detective, with his ridiculous getup, is on the case?”  

Clark bristled a little, but forced it down. Batman, himself, would find it ridiculous if Clark was taking on offenses for him. “Ah, well.” He glanced down and noticed he’d hovered a bit off the floor. He forced himself to obey gravity, then glanced back up. Bruce was watching him over his shoulder. “Even if he were a League member, which I’m not sure I’d be at liberty to say, none of our League members are available around the clock. If this case persists, though, I’m sure we’ll have more Leaguers on the case. Different ones.”  

“Like the nocturnal Bat.”  

“Perhaps,” Clark agreed.  

The nagging sense of doubt hadn’t left him, but it did hit him what was weird about the last call. Dick had been headed back to Blüdhaven, to the Blüdhaven City Police Department for his shift, but he’d called halfway through lunch to ask Bruce if he could borrow the car.  

If he were already headed to Blüdhaven, Clark couldn’t see why he’d need the car. And he wasn’t sure Wayne Manor was on the way to Blüdhaven, from Metropolis, either. Though, Clark had to note, the Waynes owned plenty of properties and plenty of parking space in plenty of areas. There was more than a reasonable chance that one of those properties were on the way to Blüdhaven.  

Even if Dick had seemed to be asking about a particular car, which both he and Bruce would be aware of.  

I mean, maybe he didn’t mind going out of his way and stopping off at Wayne Manor if it meant getting behind the wheel of one car in particular, or maybe he was planning to follow up a shift at his police department with a drive to the Manor?  

The doubt still nagged at Clark, but there seemed to be more than enough reasons for the request that he felt that it wouldn’t be fair to dwell on it. He’d already been inwardly judgmental enough of Dick, at their first meeting, anyway. He owed him a little benefit of the doubt, at the very least.  

--  

[Bruce]  

Bruce couldn’t help the feeling that he was wasting time, particularly as it neared the end of the day.  

Besides that, he remembered the Watchtower’s duty schedule. If Green Lantern was doing any investigating, either his duties on the Watchtower were being neglected (which was more likely than not), or he was going to be doing both, which meant split time and split attention and more time with a Superman babysitter for Bruce.  

He was also relatively sure that the Flash had an evening of Monitor duty, as well as his usual responsibilities to Central and Keystone.  

Suffice it to say, Bruce was not confident that his case would be taking priority. But that fell under the category of “things Batman would know that Bruce Wayne would not.”  

There was also the chance that a different Lantern and Flash were the investigation team, but that was almost worse, given how green the new Lantern – and only other current planetside Lantern – was. The other Flashes, the retired one and newest one, were both fine, but Bruce definitely trusted Barry the best, out of the three, not least because of the third Flash's relationship status.  

--  

[Dick]  

“I don’t know why you won't even agree to let me nominate you for the League roster.”  

“Babe, I love you, but I’m not having this argument, again.”  

“But, dude, if you were on the roster, you wouldn’t even need to try and get information out of me! Which I’m not supposed to be giving you, either, by the way.”  

Dick snorted. “As if you could ever deny me.”  

Wally grumbled a bit, but didn’t disagree. It wasn’t like Dick was wrong, but neither was Wally. Everything would be way easier, in terms of information gathering, if Dick was actually on the League. But that wasn’t a possibility. On the one hand, Bruce didn’t want Dick on the roster – League missions were far more dangerous affairs than what Dick usually dealt with, after all. On the other hand, Dick already had his plate full with his Blüdhaven patrol, BCPD job, and the volunteer work he did at the city center. Fitting League work between all that would be unrealistic, especially if he didn’t have more control over his BCPD schedule (he was hoping to catch a promotion that would allow for just that, but he couldn’t exactly count on it). On a third hand, he wasn’t sure he would be able to work with Bruce without letting on that he knew Bruce (as Batman), which was hard enough when he was just dealing with his boyfriend, let alone the whole League.  

Dick moved his phone to his other ear and held it in place with his shoulder so that he could accept a file handed to him by a co-worker.  

“Look, you stop telling me the things I ask about and maybe I’ll consider the League thing. Or just hack the Watchtower like I did before we were dating. Either, or. But until then, just keep me vaguely in the loop, man.” Dick kicked at the desk, spinning around in his crappy, city-issue computer chair. “That’s all I ask.”  

“Why do you even care about the Wayne case?”  

Why did he even—  

Dick caught his foot on the edge of the desk and brought himself to an abrupt stop. He let the unimpressed silence fill up the phone.  

A beat passed.  

Then another.  

By the third beat, Wally got it.  “Oh my God wait. Is that Wayne as in Bruce? Bruce-Bruce? Your Bruce?”  There it was.  

“You mean my dad? Uh. Yeah. Good job, Walls. That could be your father-in-law one day. How do you forget something like that?”  

“Did you just propose?!”  

“I was thinking about it, but if you can’t even remember who my dad is, I’m not sure that’s a great idea right now,” Dick deadpanned.  

“You’re gonna give me a heart attack!”  

“You'll be fine, I'm sure. So? Who’s on investigation detail? What do you guys know? Is there something I can do to make things go faster? Something to hack, someone to call? I kinda want this whole thing over with, asap.” Dick scooted closer to his desk, where his computer pinged him an alert from one of the background projects he had decided were worth running on his work computer.  

“Well, I’m on investigation, as Flash, and I think we’ve pulled in Rayner to partner with me on the next part of the investigation. I think we’re going all 'Flash and GL' so that, even when it’s time to swap teams out, we have the same basic team listed.”  

“I didn’t know there was another planetside Lantern on the League, right now.”  

“He’s super new to the gig, yeah. The League gig, I mean. Hal vouches for his Corps training n' shit.”  

“And what? You two are lead investigators right now?”  

“N…no? I don’t think so. Hang on.”  There was a quiet shuffle on the other end. Wally could have muted himself, but he never did, which left Dick privy to what was going on, on Wally's end of the line.  “Hey, Princess?”  

“Flash.”  Dick could pretty easily make out the sound of Wonder Woman's voice on the other end. He pushed down the surge of excitement (but god, Wonder Woman was so cool) and listened closely, bating his breath.  

“Who do we actually have on the whole Wayne-and-terrorists case? I mean, I know a bunch of us have roles, but like. It’s not me, is it? Like, heading the investigation? Because, you know…”  

“I believe we will be putting the other Flash in the role of lead investigator, if the Batman remains unavailable.”  And, shit. At least they took the threat seriously enough that they would want B investigating. But also: apparently it was bad enough that they wanted B investigating.  

“Oh, okay. So you’re waiting to hear back from the Bat.”  

“Yes.”  

“Cool, cool.”  Dick could practically hear him nodding.  

“Flash?”  

“Yes?”  

“Are you on the line with someone?”  

Dick slapped a hand over his mouth to avoid laughing. Oh god, no wonder B was always on about beating professionalism into his co-workers. Like, no, Dick didn’t think Wonder Woman was unprofessional or unobservant, but failing to secure the area before talking about an active case? Yeah, that was probably a no-no. And then there was Wally who was apparently that obvious about being on a call with his boyfriend. Dick just hoped the call was routed through Wally’s cowl, not on a actual phone.  

“Oh. Uhm. Kinda?”  

“Flash.”  

“He’s cool, I swear!”  

Dick actually did laugh, that time. Wonder Woman had enhanced senses, so it was a pretty sure thing that she heard him.  

“Flash!”  

“Ohgodshe'smadhelp.”  

“Transfer me over, Walls.”  

“And they know your identity. Flash.”  

“Yup, yeah, okay. Transferring.”  

Dick chuckled as he brought his phone away from his face long enough to go into the app Tim had coded a few weeks back, intended to manipulate their voices and scramble their calls in a single, easy step. He brought the receiver back up to his ear. “Sorry to introduce myself so late, and in the middle of what probably looks like a pretty bad gaff on Wally's part. Flash, I mean. But, I assure you, I am not a security compromise.”  

“I’m not sure I should trust the voice of a man when it is disguised as yours is. Nor do I find it wise to entrust any cases in League care to someone outside the circle of trust,”  Diana said. Her voice was a strong, powerful one, the slightest touch of Greek in her accent. It was gorgeous and a bit intimidating. Dick had never had the pleasure of hearing her voice first-hand before this.  

“Ah. Well. I highly doubt you would distrust the Flash's integrity. Any Flash. But, in Wally's defense, I’ve been his partner for a while, now.”  

“Partner? His partner in Keystone—”  

“No, I mean.  Partner.  We’ve been together for years, ma'am. We have separate apartments, but that’s due to where we operate, not our lack of dedication to one another.” Dick leaned against his desk and gnawed on his lower lip. It always made him feel warm and content, talking about his relationship with Wally. He just hoped it was enough to get Wally out of hot water with Wonder Woman… mostly because Dick didn’t actually want to go back to hacking the League to get the information he wanted (or needed). “We were just talking about getting married,” he tacked on, as the silence stretched. True, it had been as a joke, but he wasn't exactly lying.  

“I see,”  Diana said. Finally.  “I didn’t know Wally was seeing someone quite so seriously.”  

“Yeah, wow,”  Hal piped up.  

Dick tried to strangle or contain his laugh, but couldn’t. “Wally, you didn’t put me on open comms, did you?”  

“Oh, fuck!”  

The noise that followed had to be Wally slapping his forehead.  

“Wally, you’re getting married?”  Barry put in.  

“Congratulations,”  Ollie said.  

“Jesus fuck, kid! I knew you had a boyfriend, but what the fuck?”  Hal started laughing, and kept laughing, a bit hysterically.  “Bear, we’re getting old!”  

“I’ve never met him!”  Barry whined.  

“Spooky wouldn’t like that the comms are being flooded, guys,”  Ollie said, oddly responsible in spite of his own flood of giggles, which complemented Hal's.  

“What is going on? I just got on comms.”  Dick didn’t recognize that voice.  

“Kyle! My boyfriend's girlfriend's nephew is getting married!”  Hal said. Which meant that that had to be the other, newer Lantern.  

“Okay, folks, I actually need to hang up so that I can get some work done,” Dick said.  

“Don’t leave me with them!”  Wally said.  

“I’ll talk to you later, babe. Good luck with the League.” Dick didn’t even feel guilty hanging up on Wally and saddling him with the whole situation. Wally had, after all, done it to himself by misrouting the call to open comms.  

--  

[Clark]  

Clark tried not to judge. He really did. But the third Flash always seemed to be getting himself into those kinds of messes, so Clark did let himself judge. A little.  

Not least because, apparently, Wally shared confidential details with his partner. That was definitely something that needed to be looked into and discussed, as there was a definite sense of unprofessionalism and vulnerability about the information sharing. Clark didn’t exactly distrust Barry's protégé, but he also didn’t know anything about Wally's boyfriend. A simple miscalculation, on Wally's part, and sensitive League information could be funneled who knows where.  

“Is there a problem?” Bruce cut in.  

Clark startled a little and returned his attention to the billionaire. “Oh. No. Not at all.” He put a smile in place. “The League was just accidentally introduced to a member's partner, over comms.”  

“Accidentally?”  

“It was probably meant to be a private comm.”  

Bruce nodded, though his eyebrow was still raised.  

“Flash, uh, his protégé. His boyfriend was on comms. It was probably meant to be private. The conversation between the partner and another Leaguer, I mean. I guess Flash, uh, Flash Three’s a bit closer to tying the knot than we thought.” The silence was weirdly unbearable and Clark hated how he immediately dove into explanation, rambling all the while.  

The answer seemed to satisfy Bruce, though. If startle him. It was hard to read his expression, after it shuttered. Clark wondered what was going through that head.  

--  

[Bruce]  

Thanks to Superman imparting the information about Flash and his “partner,” Bruce was expecting the call from Dick.  

“Hey, B…?”  Dick trailed off nervously.  

Bruce turned away from Clark, but didn’t walk far. There wasn’t much of a point in trying to hide a conversation from Superman. “I know.”  

“Oh. Oh good. Cool.”  

“Mm-hm.”  

“It was an accident!”  

Accident. Right. “Of course.”  

“Don’t do that, B.”  

“I don't know what you’re talking about.” He knew exactly what Dick was talking about.  

“That thing. You know. The thing! Even you make mistakes, B.”  

“Like letting that  boy  near my son,” Bruce said, the picture of false agreement. By 'boy,' of course he meant 'meta.' The boy part really wasn't the issue.  

Well, generally speaking, Bruce didn’t have too much of an issue with Wally. Even if it wasn’t the ideal to have a meta in his city as often as he was, thanks to his link to Dick.  

“Now that’s just uncalled for.”  

“Don't you have a wedding to plan, son?”  

Clark’s startle was such a strong and blatant one that Bruce practically felt it. It also seemed as though he could feel Clark's mind working through the situation, making connections to the conversation had over League comms. Clark wasn’t dumb, after all. He'd be a terrible investigative reporter if he didn’t have the barest grip of how to think logically and connect related events and supposed coincidences.  

“Oh my god. This is it. This is how it begins, isn't it?”  

“Sure. Goodbye, Dick.” Bruce allowed himself the smallest of amused smiles.  

“No one proposed! There's no wedding! I said that as a joke. Swear to god I’d tell you first, B.”  

“You know Alfred will want to help you plan it out, of course. You should decide if you want to use the gardens, the Manor, our somewhere else. If you want the gardens, we’ll of course have it landscaped to whatever specifications you have in mind. With whatever flowers and colours would fit your theme.” Bruce shifted his phone to the other ear. “Oh, and would you prefer a priest or a family friend to marry you? Or family. Barbara and Tim, both, I believe, have the appropriate ordination. And, ah,  Father Peters  is, of course, ordained.”  

Father Peters was one of Jason's covers. Jason hated that cover the most. He hated the clerical collar. But it would be nice to get him in wedding pictures somehow. Theoretically. Bruce did, in fact, know that Dick and Wally weren’t actually getting married. Dick wasn’t the kind of person who decided to get married and didn't immediately call everyone in his family and extended friend circle, or at least send an obnoxious group text that proceeded to haunt everyone who didn't know how to leave or mute it.  

“Stop playing along to something that’s not happening!”  

“Mm-hm.”  

“Seriously!”  

“Of course. If you would like, as my eldest I believe you are entitled to the decision of whether or not you would like to use my parents' rings, though I know my mother's is rather old-fashioned.”  

Dick was silent, but a thick, loaded kind of silence. He cleared his throat.  “You. Really?”  

“Of course. But don’t feel pressured into using them. It’s just an option.”  

“So… you actually… wouldn’t mind If me n' Wally got married? Not that we are!”  

Bruce decided not to take it personally that Dick doubted him like that. Everyone had their insecurities. “Of course not, Dick. Though I expect a bit more forewarning before your next announcement. Even if the announcement is an accident. Another accident, I suppose I should say.”  

“Oh. Okay. Yeah. I’m… uh. Yeah. I think,”  he cleared his throat, again, then took a moment. Most likely a moment in which to collect himself.  “I’m gonna hang up now.”  

“Mmhm, goodbye, Dick.”  

“Right.”  Dick seemed to hesitate for a moment, then hung up. The hesitation was about where he might have exchanged a familial “I love you” when he was younger. Where he still did so with his brothers.  

Bruce missed that exchange, of a sudden. But, being about as emotionally repressed as he could manage to be, he didn’t see a way to bring that up in conversation.  

When Bruce turned back to the room, Superman was looking at him with wide eyes. Bruce raised an eyebrow, mildly imperious, “Yes?”  

“Your—” Clark managed.  

“Son?” Bruce offered.  

“Your son. And—and…”  

“Wally.”  

“They. He…”  

“Yes, Wally is the Flash, third of the name.”  

“But. That? He?”  

“Yes, that means his partner is my son. Though I would be extremely grateful if you didn’t spread that around. It's need to know and no one who isn’t told, by either my son or his partner, needs to know.” Bruce crossed his arms and put on a look of reproach that was mildly effective with his kids. Mildly. After a beat, he tacked on: “He’s not very good about the secret identity thing, is he? Wally, I mean.”  

“Jesus,” Clark ran a hand through his hair.  

Bruce shrugged. “I was raised Jewish.” It did its job of bringing a bit of levity back to the room.  

Clark gave a startled laugh. But smothered it and returned to sobriety almost immediately. He wasn’t exactly Batman good at it, but he was better than Bruce usually gave him credit for. But then again, both men had civilian identities that were almost entirely an act.  

“I thought…” Clark hesitated, then nodded to himself. “I thought Flash's partner was a vigilante. He talked like he knew the way we operated. And his voice, on comms, was disguised.”  

“Mm,” Bruce gave Clark a thoughtful look. “Perhaps he was referring to his work in Blüdhaven.”  

“As a cop,” Clark muttered. “That doesn’t explain the voice disguise.”  

“Our family is high-profile,” Bruce waved him off dismissively. “I would be more surprised if my children didn’t find ways to stay under the radar.” It almost amused Bruce when he used bits of the truth, like such, to mislead people. It came off as more honest and trustworthy, and could pass for the truth better than a flat out lie could.  

“I don’t know…”  

Bruce waved him off again. “Dick was in computer and math clubs all through his school career, a voice scrambler – or whatever – wouldn’t be beyond his skills.” Another misleading truth, not least because Bruce knew for a fact that Tim had done the design and build for the vocoder app, and improved their uniform vocoders.  

Clark gave a reluctant nod.  

Bruce knew, from work with the League, that Clark would be monitoring his heartbeat, looking for the lies. He also knew that using half-truths for his lies gave him the distinct advantage of not actually lying. Even if he was lying, though, he knew how to keep his heartbeat at the right place to fool just about any heartbeat-analyzing lie detector, even Superman.  

“Do you… approve of who your son is dating?” Clark was obviously trying to be delicate, which was cute but unnecessary.  

“Not particularly,” Bruce drawled. He could see Clark stiffen protectively. “Oh no, not because of  that.  Not because he’s a man. I’ve never been a fan of his influence on my son. And it’s been a long fifteen years of influence. Or so.”  

Clark visibly relaxed. Bruce made a mental note to get him some measure of training so that he would be able to better mask his emotions. It was ridiculous how easy he made himself to read. “Sorry, I—" Clark grimaced. “I shouldn’t have assumed—”  

“No, no,” Bruce waved him off. “It was an honest mistake. But it would certainly be two-faced—” he allowed him a soft huff of amusement, “—if I were to judge my son based on the gender of his partner. As the last scandal was so fond of reiterating, I happen to be bisexual, myself. I just prefer my public dates to be of the feminine persuasion.”  

“Your son is bisexual, then?”  

It was almost amusing how hesitant Clark was to call Dick by his name. Ah, that wholesome Kansas charm wasn’t just a front, then. It was always a bit infuriating when people turned out to be as wholesome as they presented themself to be. “Oh, god, no,” Bruce slipped a bit more of his “public Bruce” persona on. “I’m certainly bumbling my words, today, aren’t I? No. Dick is pansexual, he’s had more than enough people assuming that was just him being bisexual, but wanting to be more special or something.”  

Jason was bisexual, too. But Jason also hated being reminded that he bore any similarities to Bruce. And he was legally dead. So, yeah. Bruce couldn’t exactly throw that fun (harmless) family fact into the conversation, without either getting mildly depressing or somehow explaining a newly “re-alived” Jason somehow.  

Re-alived.  

Naturally, spending time with Dick had it’s consequences. Bruce filed the false term away as something to consciously keep out of his mouth, in case a reporter were to hear it and run with it for some mind-numbing celebrity gossip about Bruce Wayne being inarticulate, uneducated, or both. Or “illiterate,” if they didn’t understand the difference between linguistic fluency and literacy.  

Clark nodded slowly. “I… suppose I haven’t been keeping up with the celebrity news sections.”  

“It’s not worth your time, unless you find your own name in there. The amount of libel and slander cases I have going is something else.” Bruce straightened his tie, making it the only officially straight Wayne. Possibly the only straight in the room, too, if the rumours about Clark’s past – way back – had any merit to them.  

Ah. Wait.  

“You don’t keep up with the gossip?” he gave Clark an amused smile. “I suppose that means you don’t know about the fiasco my middle son, Tim, got himself into.”  

“No…?”  

Bruce wondered if Clark was even thinking about how “Tim” was an oddly common name around him, lately. I mean. Conner— (Bruce had to be careful not to show that he knew that name was related to Clark, come to think of it) —Conner’s best friend was named Tim, after all. Thanks to a truly unfortunate moment of rebellion, where Tim decided that all three of his best friends should know exactly who their mysterious “Robin” was, Tim had completely disregarded the secret identity rule.  

“Well,” Bruce leaned against the floor-to-ceiling window and crossed his arms. His smile was amused, even if the reminder about Tim’s insubordination was just as annoying, three years later, as it was the day Bruce had confronted him with it. “My son started dating his current boyfriend almost a year ago. They tried to keep it from me, but it’s a bit hard to sneak around when the Manor’s been meticulously up-to-date on security and surveillance, and even Tim’s not good enough to wipe or loop footage every single time his Hawaiian jock boyfriend decides to surprise him there.” Bruce trailed off. He was off track. And Conner wasn’t actually Hawaiian, he just spent a few of those formative clone years in Hawaii being a nuisance.  

Bruce had literally made Tim sign an NDA after the secret identity fiasco. Not that it would be anything other than something to hold over Tim’s head when Tim tried to hold a straight face when he lied about telling someone his name. (“Bart didn’t say, ‘Shut up, Tim,’ he said ‘Shut up time,’ B! Honest!” Yeah, right. Sure. No, the surveillance footage and audio were both lying. Absolutely. How had he managed that with a straight face?)  

“Anyway. They were dating a long while. But the reporters were slow on the uptake. By design, but it got to the point where Tim was considering a press conference, to get it all over with.”  

“Isn’t he seventeen?”  

“Still sixteen, when he was considering the press conference, but yes. Not really a normal, teenage consideration, I know. But before it came to that, well. Rather, before he managed to get the press conference set up and off the ground, the gossip rags all jumped on a resurfacing Tweet thread between Tim and Cullen – another one of mine, actually – where Tim and Cullen had been joking back and forth about Cullen’s old crush on Tim, from before he was part of the family.”  

“Oh,” Clark made a face.  

“Mm-hm,” Bruce sighed, but it turned into a laugh. “They all ran with this narrative that Tim thought it was gross that Cullen had a crush on him because Cullen was gay. Instead of the perfectly logical assumption that Tim and Cullen were brothers and no one wants to think about a pre-adoption crush. Tim hates being reminded of his old crush on Dick, even though Tim was seven and wouldn’t be adopted for another seven years.”  

Clark chuckled, too. “Oh, gee.”  

“And,” Bruce shook his head, “Cullen and Tim are close. They have similar interests and spend time together. All that jazz,” he winced as the dated term escaped his mouth, but carried on. “They actually talk. So, even then, Cullen knew that Tim was carrying a torch for Conner.”  

There. Right there.  

Clark’s breath stuttered and his eyes widened as the “Conner” helped him put all those Tim-shaped pieces together.  

Bruce steadfastedly pretended he didn’t see it, though. “So the gossip rags all print, the same day, about Tim’s homophobic past. Tim is at a business lunch when his phone alerts him about the articles. I hear he stood up so fast that he knocked the drinks right off the table.”  

There was also a lot of shouting, particularly when Tim locked eyes with a recognizable redhead who was constantly causing him problems. Vicki hadn’t actually been the byline for any of the homophobe stories, but she probably deserved it, anyway.  

Clark barked a startled laugh. “Oh my god.”  

“He was shouting for the rest of the day. I thought he was going to end up pulling his hair out.” Bruce shook his head. “I got a phone call, Dick got a phone call, each of his friends, Cullen, and Conner. It was a mess and the next few days were going to be filled with articles about Tim flipping out.”  

“Jesus, I can’t even imagine.”  

“Yeah. He and Cullen – who hates public speaking with a passion – held a joint conference. I heard that Conner offered to be there, too, but Tim didn’t want to give the reporters anything other than what he had scripted. Mostly, it was ‘I’m not a homophobe, I’m gay, my brother’s gay, those were old jokes with my brother about a time before we were brothers’ and ‘he’s not a homophobe, I’m gay, he’s gay, he wasn’t grossed out by me being gay’ said as many ways as possible. That and the libel suits we filed finally set the record straight.” And it was the only straight thing left.  

“Is that kind of thing… normal for you guys?” Clark asked.  

“Unfortunately.” Bruce nodded.  

--  

[Tim]  

“What the fuck,” Tim jerked off his headphones. “He’s talking about me!”  

Conner snorted, from behind the comic book he’d stolen off Tim’s dresser. “Your dad is such a dad.”  

“He’s talking about me to  your dad , this is unacceptable!” Tim threw himself backwards to lie next to Conner. “I hate everything. But mostly, I hate being reminded about how the nation called me a homophobe for like a whole week.”  

Conner peered around the comic at him. “It was like three days. Chill, man.”  

“The whole nation! Called me a homophobe! There were talk shows, YouTube tea spills, longform analyses of my  entire Twitter history  published on public blogs!”  

“Fine, don’t chill,” Conner returned his attention to the X-Men comic. “Keep ranting until you tire yourself out. I’m sure you’ll feel better.”  

“I can taste your sarcasm.”  

“That sounded kinda gross.”  

“I can  taste  your sarcasm, Kon,” Tim repeated.  

“Why are you listening to your dad, anyway? I thought you were going to track down the terrorists or whatever so that you could get this whole League-watching-your-dad thing over with.”  

Tim slapped his hands to his face and groaned. “I only wanted to check in to see if he was doing okay!”  

“He’s just a civilian, how much trouble could he get into?” Conner flipped the page of his comic. No! It was Tim’s comic! Dammit, Tim hated when he started just mentally gifting shit to Conner, because Conner knew he did it and totally took advantage by doing things like stealing comics. And then giving them to Bart! The audacity. “Besides, he’s got Superman to keep him safe.”  

But even worse than the mental gifting was the whole ‘just a civilian’ thing. Imagine thinking that the goddamn Batman needed a fucking babysitter. Jesus!  

Conner was so smart, just a little deductive reasoning and he could easily connect Tim’s family to the vigilante gig, even if none of them publically associated their vigilante personas with one another. So smart. But Tim had signed that stupid-ass NDA and was pride-bound (yes, pride) not to break any of the terms, which meant he couldn’t actually give Conner any of those helpful little nudges that would. You know. Clue Conner in.  

Tim kicked at the bed, repeatedly.  

“Hey, stop that,” Conner peeked around the comic again. “I can’t read when you bounce the mattress.”  

Tim looked him dead in the eye and did it again, harder.  

“For the love of—”  

“My dad totally let the cat out of the bag. Your dad just found out that Tim-your-boyfriend is the same as Tim-the-seventeen-year-old-CEO. I hope you get grounded.”  

“That’s real mature.”  

Tim stuck his tongue out.  

--  

[Clark]  

Not only did he not know that Bruce Wayne had  kids , but he somehow managed to miss the fact that  his own kid  was dating one of them?! And Wally! Wally,  the Flash,  was dating another of them!  

Clark was so done with this assignment.  

What was there left to discover? That Jon’s best friend – that weird Robin vigilante kid – was a Wayne? That zombies were real? That zombie vigilantes were real? That Wayne was a vigilante?  

Wait. Actually.  

Wasn’t Tim, Conner’s Tim, also a vigilante called Robin, once? His codename had shifted to Red Robin, from what Clark could tell. But if Tim was Robin and Tim was a Wayne, then what if the other Robin, the new one…? No. Nope. He wasn’t even going to think about it.  

(And he supposed that, come to think of it, he himself kinda counted as a zombie vigilante after the whole Doomsday thing.)  

Clark glanced up to see Bruce regarding him thoughtfully. It sent a shiver down his spine, which he thought he hid pretty well—until Bruce chuckled and glanced away. It was like the universe had decided to conspire against him for the day.  

Wait.  

“Uh,” Clark cleared his throat. “You, uh—”  

Bruce turned back to him and raised an eyebrow.  

“You said you had five kids?”  

“Yes.”  

“But you just said Cullen…” Clark never felt less like Superman than in that moment, waving a hand vaguely in the air and trying to figure out where he was trying to go with that line of questioning. “Dick, Cass, Tim, Damian, Duke, right?”  

“Ah, I see. Well.” Bruce looked toward the ceiling thoughtfully. “Yes. Harper and Cullen are part of the family as well. I know I said ‘adopted,’ but that process isn’t actually finished. Until that process goes through, I’m technically fostering them.”  

“So. Seven? Seven kids?”  

”Sure.”  

“Sure?” Clark ran another hand through his hair. He would be surprised if his hair even remotely resembled the neat Superman coif he’d arrived with, given the amount of times he’d ran his hands through his hair. “You don’t sound sure.”  

“Stephanie, my daughter’s girlfriend, was briefly fostered, until she went through the process of emancipation this past year.” Bruce paused to give the ceiling a small, proud smile on Stephanie’s behalf. “We also have very close family friends, the Gordons and Foxes, who we certainly count as family. And there’s my cousin, her girlfriend, my ex, my ex’s girlfriends, and a number of other people we consider family. It’s never been as simple as who, on paper, is my kin.”  

Clark wondered if it was possible for him to get a headache.  

“Oh!” Bruce snapped his fingers. “Carrie,” he said warmly. “How could I forget our own Nancy Drew of the family.” He laughed at what had to be a private joke, “she’s family, whether or not I have the paperwork to prove it. She’s too old to be adopted, but if she would have let me, I still would have tried. She thought it was a bit much.”  

Christ (sorry, Ma), this guy sounded like he had a compulsion.  

--  

[Bruce]  

It wasn’t often that Bruce got to talk about his kids, really. Nor his extended family circle.  

Usually, Bruce was stuck with the same three and a half topics he could talk about in public. As Batman, there were even fewer things he could talk about, in terms of his personal life, without getting too transparent about his secret identity. But with Superman? As Bruce? He could talk. He could be more open about his family, if only the public sides of them.  

Bruce, here behind closed doors, wasn’t a public figure with a huge company and more money than he knew what to do with. He also wasn’t the Batman. He was just a dad who loved his kids.  

He was also getting tired of this “being babysat” thing, but it was, as Dick might say, “whatever.” He had to put up with it, for the sake of his identity, though he knew he could rest easy in the knowledge that his kids were on the case, not just the League. Sure, they had to be sneaky about it, but they  were  on it, which was infinitely more comforting than either Flash or Green Lantern. Not that he wanted to dismiss Wally or Barry, in terms of investigative skills. But Hal...  

No, he was lucky his kids were on the case.  

“Big family,” Clark said. At least he wasn’t doing his nervous floating anymore. It had been a close one, though, when Bruce had mentioned Carrie. The sheer amount of family Bruce had admitted to, been able to admit to, probably had him on edge, in terms of the whole threat-to-Bruce-Wayne's-life situation.  

“Yes,” Bruce said. “I was an only child. And then I was only child raised by my butler,” he shrugged. “It was a lonely way to grow up, though I would never tell Alfred that. A big family wasn’t something I expected to end up with, or sought out when I became of age, but it’s certainly not something I’ll complain about. Even in the worst times, they’re worth it. Even when...” he quieted.  

Jason.  

Losing Jason was the worst thing that could have happened to him. Worse than his own death, and he’d done that, too, so he knew. Losing Damian had been just as bad. God, how many of his kids did he have to see like that before he tried to force them out of the field, anyway? It was too late for some of them, being that he couldn’t very well exert parental prerogative over legal adults, but why did he continue to allow the others out?  

“Mr. Wayne...?”  

“Hm?” Bruce’s eyes snapped up to Clark’s. “Sorry.” He eased himself into a smile.  

“I think I lost you for a bit.” Clark’s voice was gentle, careful.  

“Yes, well. I lead myself back to some dark memories. Sorry about that.” The smile felt a little fake, and there was something unnerving about knowing that his best friend wouldn’t be able to see through it, but it served its purpose, keeping Clark from going on edge. Back on edge.  

“I see,” Clark gave him a sad little smile. “We’ve lost people before. It’s never easy.”  

Bruce nodded. He remembered that, too. Barry had been gone for. Oh, too long. The League just wasn’t the same without him, even when Wally stepped up to take his place. Wally helped keep them even-keeled in the wake of the loss, but it wasn’t until Barry’s return that things started to return to normal.  

--  

[Dick]  

No, that wasn’t right. Was it?  

No.  

It had to be wrong. Maybe he took a wrong turn somewhere.  

Dick placed his chin in his hand. Weird. And concerning.  

He picked up his phone and debated his speed dials. He could clue Wally in, probably. It would start a chain reaction of, hopefully, an appropriate response within the League. On the other hand, Bruce really ought to know what they were facing, if this was right.  

He settled with a sort-of in-between and pressed his phone to his ear.  

The line clicked as the other end was picked up. “Yo, Timmy?” Dick tried.  

“No, hang on, he stepped out for coffee,”  Conner said.  

Dick heard a shuffle as Conner slid forward and stood, probably from the mattress of Tim’s bed. Dick didn’t necessarily like thinking about Tim’s boyfriend and Tim’s bed in the same thought, nor Tim’s boyfriend in Tim’s room, but he pushed it aside.  

“It’s kind of urgent,” Dick propped his elbows up on his desk. His shift was almost up, but it was too important to wait.  

“Yeah, I figured,”  Conner said. He sounded fond and exasperated.  “Hold on.”  

Dick pursed his lips. He liked Conner. Really, he did. But he’d lost a bit of that sullen edge and some of his intensity, which should have been a good thing, but for the fact that he’d replaced it with a far more laid-back demeanor. There wasn’t much in the way of “hurry” about him, outside of active missions.  

“Tim, it’s for you,”  Conner said, albeit a bit distantly.  

“What?”  

“It’s for you. Your brother, I think.”  

“That doesn’t narrow it down.”  

“Just take the phone.”  

The banter was unbearably fond and familiar. Dick couldn’t help but smile a bit. He was glad Tim found someone like that.  

“What is it?”  Tim said.  

"Rude. Maybe I just wanted to see what you were up to. The clone treating you right?” Dick smiled.  

Tim made a discontent noise in the back of his throat. “ He can hear you, you know,”  he said.  

“Yeah, yeah. Obviously, I wouldn’t call during work hours if I just wanted to know how you were, anyway, so. You know the. The Situation?” Dick pushed back, off of his desk, and leaned back in his chair. “With B?”  

“Yeah, terrorists, blah blah blah.”  

Dick snorted. “Yes. I mean no! I mean.”  

“Just spit it out, would you?”  

“Well. Uh. It’s League.” Dick chewed on his lower lip.  

“League as in JL?”  

“No.”  

Both of them were quiet for a long moment. Then Dick cleared his throat. “No, not JL,” he reiterated.  

Tim gave a harsh sigh and shifted his phone.  “Fuck. Okay. Have you called B? Or the League?”  

“No, I didn’t know who I should call with the information. I figured I’d start with you.”  

“Okay, well.”  Tim huffed again. Dick would have put good money on Tim pacing back and forth. It was what he always ended up doing, when he was on the phone, more so when he was thinking something through.  “Yeah. Call B. He needs to know. Obviously targeting Bruce Wayne is an intentional misdirection, here. They don’t care about Bruce.  He  doesn’t care about Bruce. Not the one that’s been publicly threatened. Let him decide whether to tell the League.”  

“ Well. His babysitter will hear, too.”  

“Yeah. Probably. But if it’s Ra’s, B really needs to know.”  

Dick scrunched up his nose. “Please don’t call him by his first name. It’s weird.”  

“Oh my god. Just call B.”  

Dick nodded, uselessly. “Right. Bye.” He hung up after the click on Tim’s end. The lack of goodbye wasn’t reflective of their relationship (or Tim’s usual phone habits), but of what mode Tim was in. And Tim was clearly going into Red Robin mode.  

Dick brought his phone down, hit Bruce’s speed dial, then brought his phone back up to his ear. He held his breath. This was going to be the third call in one day.  

“Dick.”  Well, at least he didn’t sound mad. A bit flat, but not mad.  

“Hey, B.”  

“I hope you have a good reason for this.”  There was a pause. Dick could almost hear the way Bruce frowned.  “Shouldn’t you be getting out of work in fourteen minutes?”  

“This couldn’t wait.” It probably could have waited, but a lot could happen in a quarter of an hour. That was fourteen minutes – thirteen, now, probably – that could give Bruce an edge in the whole situation. Against the League? They could use that edge.  

“Mmhm.”  

“Is Big Blue still there?”  

“Mmhm.”  

Dick puffed out a breath of air, feeling stressed. “Well, this isn’t something you’re gonna want him to hear. Probably. But it’s important. Like, really-really important.”  

“Mm.”  

“Is he listening?”  

“After a concerning comment like that? Probably. What is it?”  

“We—I—uh. I figured out who the terrorists are?” Dick ran a hand through his hair, tugging out the hair tie absently. “Well. Not... not terrorists, necessarily? But also, yes, terrorists. I was doing some digging around, found the group threatening you, found some finances. I was about ready to pat myself on the back for a job well done, as you do...” Dick trailed off, sighing. His stress ratchetted a bit higher.  

“And?”  

“And it’s not some random group. It’s just made to  look like  some random group. Their funds trace back to a few places that, on their own, don’t look to suspicious, outside of the fact that they’re connected to a terrorist organization, but they’re almost entirely a list of places of known League operations and banks. Not JL-League. It’s the League of Assassins, B.” Ever since Dami had joined the family, Dick had been all the more sensitive to anything related to the League. They hadn’t become more dangerous or anything, not really, but with the familial connection, through Dami it was almost like the League had a more direct line to Dick’s whole family, and that just didn’t feel safe.  

A silence stretched between them. Then Bruce sighed, slowly.  “The League.”  

“Yeah. And we already know that Al Ghul knows, you know, the Thing.” He propped the phone between his ear and his shoulder and reached back to tie his hair back up into a low ponytail. “Which means that it’s not actually a Bruce Wayne thing at all. It’s a way of tying you up with your Bruce Wayne identity, so that you can’t act. It has to be.” Dick shifted in his seat and returned his phone to his hand. “I told Tim already. He said to pass it on to you, rather than the JL. You can choose what to do from here, though.”  

“Right. Thank you, Dick. I’ll get back to you, soon.”  

The click of the line being hung up followed up Bruce’s “soon” before Dick could even respond, which meant Bruce, like Tim, had immediately gone into business mode.  

For his part, Dick kicked his feet out, under his desk, and watched the clock. He didn’t want to leave early, as he’d done that more often than he liked to admit, already, but he wanted to be out of BCPD as soon as possible. Back in Gotham, as soon as possible. If he timed it right, there was five minutes until he could punch out, and he could be Zeta’d back into the Cave in ten minutes. Maybe fifteen. It still felt like too long, but it was the best he could do, under the circumstances, even with the worry still undulating uncomfortably under his skin.  

--  

[Clark]  

What?  

Really. What?  

Clark hadn’t necessarily  meant  to listen in, but Bruce had been right, after Dick’s comment, about the importance of his information and the likelihood that Bruce wouldn’t want other people – wouldn't want Clark – knowing, he couldn’t help but keep half an ear on the conversation, even as he pretended he wasn’t listening.  

The League of Assassins.  

Ra’s Al Ghul.  

God, it was a bit much. The League, Justice League, that is, knew of the League of Assassins. It would be a poor “Justice” League that didn’t keep half an eye on the largest, most efficient, and most well-funded group of known terrorists in the world. Not known in many circles, mind. But “known” all the same.  

The League of Assassins was... what? After Bruce Wayne? But not Bruce Wayne? Some other identity?  

The word “identity” set of almost more alarm bells than “League of Assassins” had, honestly, because the way Dick phrased it made it sound like Bruce Wayne was a mask, and Clark... well. Clark Kent, the one that went to work at the Planet, was a mask. Clark knew that public identities could be just as much a mask as hero identities, from personal experience.  

And it made sense, didn’t it?  

Bruce Wayne. All the gossip, libelous to enough of an extent that Bruce could definitely take them to court for an easy win, allowed to continue indefinitely. The public airhead that attended parties and fundraisers and any other flashy events, always giving that vacant smile and doing or saying something that made him seem dumb. All of it.  

It didn’t match the Bruce Wayne that Clark had just spent most of the day with, in the least.  

Bruce Wayne, the Bruce Wayne that Clark had been watching over since early in the afternoon, was witty and deadpan and sarcastic. He talked about his kids, talked about his family, didn’t try to flirt or talk about women even once. He was sharp – definitely not the airhead he presented himself as, everywhere else. This was as close to the press conference Bruce as Clark could imagine getting, he was sure. And Press Conference Bruce Wayne was rumoured to be Bruce Wayne, just with a prewritten speech (and/or talking points) and a teleprompter. Suddenly, Clark very much doubted that.  

“Well?”  

Clark startled out of his thoughts and turned to Bruce.  

Bruce wasn’t smiling. He had an eyebrow raised, but his eyes were sharp and a little cold. Calculating in a way Clark had only seen glimpses of, when he’d glimpsed Bruce out the corner of his eye. And he’d been so quiet. How’d he get from the balcony back over to Clark, and so close besides, without Clark hearing him?  

“I’m sorry?” Clark said.  

“What do you think?” Bruce asked. It didn’t quite sound like a question as much as a demand, though.  

“Think.” Clark cleared his throat.  

“Mm,” Bruce gave the barest hint of a nod. “Yes. What do you think? You can be bright, when you put your mind to it. How much have you put together? And when do you plan to inform the rest of the League of the League of Assassins situation?”  

Clark felt himself grow outwardly abashed. “I didn’t mean to listen in,” he said.  

“I would have thought less of you if you weren’t keeping half an ear out for pertinent information regarding the case. Or if you simply ignored clues of something else going on.”  

Somehow, Bruce thinking less of him made Clark unhappy. He couldn’t figure why, since he hardly knew the man, but he straightened, all the same. “I haven’t, yet, told the League. I will, though. I have to?” He waited for the tiny nod, almost imperceptible. It was oddly comforting. “That will help us to investigate in the right direction.” He hesitated.  

“Ask.”  

“The... ‘Thing’? The ‘Bruce Wayne identity’? What was that about, what did your son mean?”  

--  

[Bruce]  

“Well,” Bruce steepled his fingers, casually. If that was a motion that could even  be  casual. “Investigative reporter like you? I’m sure you can figure out what that means.” And maybe he was just pressing buttons for the sake of pressing buttons. But he knew Clark well enough to know that such a comment would put him on his toes, which tended to make him sharper, more aware of his surroundings and actively in the moment.  

Clark’s spine straightened. “I—” he frowned.  

Bruce raised an eyebrow. “There’s a reason none of the Justice League can get in contact with the Bat, right now. Normally, in an emergency like this, he wouldn’t ignore League summons, but he’s had to, right?”  

“That’s not something I can confirm or deny.”  

“No, of course not. But I’m trying to give you enough so that you can come to your own conclusions, without simply drawing it out for you.” Perhaps he’d grown too used to the role of teacher, but he didn’t like observational skills being wasted. And Clark was clearly struggling not to come to the obvious conclusion. Obvious if only for the fact that Bruce went from “Bruce Wayne identity” to making inferences about the Bat.  

Clark very visibly hesitated. “B?”  

Bruce arched his raised eyebrow just a touch more, then settled back into a nondescript, neutral expression. It was nothing like any of the expressions he employed as Bruce’s public, tabloid-fueling face, nor was it the more at-ease expression set that he found himself using, when he was comfortable. It was closest, perhaps, to the range of expression he employed as Batman. “If the League of Assassins is trying to keep me occupied, as Bruce Wayne, it stands to reason that they don’t want the Bat interfering with their plans, for whatever reason.”  

Clark looked at him with wide eyes for a long moment. “You. You—wait. But...”  

Bruce rolled his eyes and turned away. Leave it to Clark to decide to have an internal and external crisis the moment he’s finally entrusted with the identity under the cowl. Maybe that was uncharitable. But there were bigger issues that Batman’s identity. Like why the League of Assassins was tying Bruce’s hands that way – through the Justice League’s interference.  

He could give Clark a moment, but he needed the JL facilities at his disposal, and soon, which he couldn’t achieve as a civilian.  

He had a feeling that the real play wasn’t for Bruce Wayne, or Batman, at all. No, Ra’s had – for the most part – given up on him. But there were others, important others, that Ra’s could very well be targeting. It was a matter of luck that both would be with very capable friends, that day. A Superboy, each. Bruce didn’t doubt that Ra’s could beat either, or both, Superboy without too much effort, but it was comforting to know that Tim and Damian weren’t off on their own somewhere, if the League was making a move.  

“You. You’re B,” Clark summarized. His voice was still high and shocked, but he seemed to be settling into some semblance of equilibrium.  

“Mm,” Bruce acknowledged.  

“Batman,” Clark clarified.  

“Mm.” Okay, so Clark was being a bit dense, today. That was fine. It wasn’t every day that you found out that your vigilante friend was a billionaire whose presence in tabloids was as common as candy in store checkouts.  

“That... means. That means Batman has  kids?”  

Oh. Bruce hadn’t thought about that. He frowned and turned back to Clark. “Is that what you’re stuck on?” he asked. He wracked his brain, trying to find an instance where Clark would have seen him, in the cowl, interact with one of his children. A Robin, particularly. Perhaps he’d done his job, keeping his kids secret and safe, a bit too well.  

“Kids. You... one of your kids...” Superman went quiet, his thoughtful gaze dropping.  

Bruce felt the prickling of unwanted awareness. Jason. Clark was remembering that time. The time when the Bat was on a rampage, ignoring all his so-called friends. When he was mourning. When he was working himself into the ground. Bruce was sure of it. He cleared his throat. “Jason, yes,” he said.  

“I’m so sorry,” Clark said quietly.  

“So you’ve said,” Bruce shifted his weight a bit. Discomfort invaded his self-awareness. “It was years ago. It...” he couldn’t say it  didn’t matter,  even as a way of getting Clark to move past it. It hurt too much, to even think of dismissing Jason that way, even if Jason was fine. “He’s fine,” he settled on.  

Clark looked at him like he’d grown a second head. “Um.”  

Bruce waved him off. “Back, rather. Obviously, his public identity hasn’t seen restitution, yet, but that’s his decision, not mine. I have the paperwork drawn up, if he decides he wants his public identity back. But he’s. His death wasn’t insignificant, not even when he came back, but it’s not something I want to dwell on. Particularly when I know he’s  fine,  if more combative than ever.”  

“Back,” Clark mouthed.  

He shouldn’t have been so surprised. In their line of work, they’d seen and done crazier.  

“Back,” Bruce agreed.  

“But... kids,” Clark insisted.  

“Quite a few of them,” Bruce sighed through his nose. “Dick jokes that I have a problem with orphan adoption. Alfred thinks I may be overcompensating for a lonely childhood. But yes. Children.”  

“Do they... they don’t know you’re Batman, do they?”  

Bruce went stubbornly quiet. He wasn’t willing to give Clark hints about his kids. He waited until Clark was uncomfortable in the silence, then gave an apathetic shrug. “I think there are more important lines of questioning, Clark, than whether or not my children are aware of vigilante activities. Foremost, for me, is getting to the Watchtower and utilizing our resources to track down the group of League of Assassins members that are in the United States. Or groups, as it may be. I need to know what, or who, they are after. And I can’t be tied down, with a babysitter, as Bruce Wayne. Understood?”  

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Series this work belongs to:

• Part 13 of Secret ID Reveals
• Part 12 of Batfamily Shenanigans & Tomfoolery